The Key & the Flame

by Claire M. Caterer

  The other man dismounted and took off into the brush. Holly crouched lower, silently making promises as one will do, things like, I swear I’ll study harder, just let them be okay. But in a few minutes, they reappeared. The boys’ hands were tied in front of them, and Clement and the prince held them securely with thick ropes.

  “I should run thee through right here,” the prince observed, pressing the flat of a broad sword against Ben’s neck.

  “Stop! Leave him alone!” Holly sprang from her hiding place and brandished the only thing she had—the wand.

  “What! Is there a third?” The prince sounded surprised, but his sword never moved.

  “ ’Tis but a maid, Your Highness,” said Clement.

  “But mind!” The boy stepped back, his wide eyes trained on Holly’s wand. “Clement,” he whispered. “Look there!”

  Clement’s glance lowered to the wand, and his face whitened. He swallowed. “She cannot be, surely,” he said. “They are dead, all.”

  Holly gripped the wand tighter. What could she not be? Who was dead?

  Clement tossed the rope to the prince. “Take the prisoners, Your Highness, and stay you clear.” He crept closer to Holly, pointing his sword at her. The blade trembled. Was he frightened of her? Her face grew hot, as if she’d been caught stealing. She thought of Mr. Gallaway.

  “Take heed!” cried the prince, his voice breaking as he clutched the rope that held Everett and Ben.

  Clement’s voice rose. “I shall make short work of her.”

  Holly looked down the etched blade, her mouth going dry. He was going to take her head off. “No, wait, I’m—”

  “Take her alive!” said the prince.

  “Please—” she started.

  “But wound her if it pleases thee.” The prince’s blue eyes glittered at her; Holly thought that if he had a long spear, he would poke her with it to hear her scream. Clement advanced, swishing his blade in a figure-eight motion, locking his eyes with Holly’s, his jaw white and hard. She stood, frozen, the wand outstretched, as he crept toward her.

  “Holly, run!” Everett shouted.

  Of course, she would have, a second later; but for the very long moment that stretched between her and Clement, she was transfixed. His eyes, so dark she could not see his pupils, bore into hers. Suddenly his sword flashed in front of her. A whiplike sting tore across her right palm, and the wand was flicked from her grasp. She heard a soft thump as it landed somewhere nearby. Clement had disarmed her of her only weapon.

  Holly’s glance darted around the forest. She had to find the wand, but if she took too long at it, she would feel the sword at her neck. In the midst of her indecision came the thundering of more hooves—heavier, and more urgent.

  Clement halted, glancing back at the prince. “Hark, Sire! The Mounted!”

  Clement raced back to his horse. He threw Ben like a sack of potatoes into the saddle and leaped up behind him. The prince had already secured Everett on his own horse.

  “Ben!” Holly cried.

  The hoofbeats grew louder just as Holly darted across the path. She had no clear idea what to do, but she couldn’t let them take the boys. She grabbed at Ben’s leg, even as the stallion was stomping in fright at the approaching sound. Then three things happened just together: Holly pulled on Ben’s ankle; Clement raised his sword and brought it down toward her wrist; and a pair of strong arms snatched her from the ground a moment before the blade made contact.

  She hung upside down over a horse’s flank. Its hooves flashed by in a blur a few inches from her eyes, wheeling on the woodland path. What did he want her for? And where were the boys?

  She managed to look up just in time to see Clement and the prince disappear around the bend, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust.

  In a moment they were gone, and Ben and Everett with them.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  A Safe Haven

  “Ben!”

  Holly hoped her horseman would ride after Clement and the prince, but instead he whirled and took off in the opposite direction.

  “Wait! Stop! My key!”

  But no one stopped, or spoke, and Holly hung off the side of the horse like a saddlebag. The horse’s hooves raced over the ground in a blur. She tried to jump, but a strong hand was planted in the small of her back, holding her down.

  Holly reached up and grasped the rider’s wrist. The horse slowed to a canter and the rider curled his arm around Holly’s waist and hoisted her upright. “Can’t you just stop?” she cried, but either the horseman didn’t hear her or didn’t care. As soon as she was sitting up (and with a dizzy headache), they sped off again. Holly threw her arms around the rider’s waist and hugged him tight. He was riding shirtless—and bareback.

  Holly’s rib cage rattled as the horse bounded sure-footed up and down the hilly path, around bends, over fallen logs and under low-hanging branches. It took all her attention to duck around the shrubbery that clutched at her from either side; she forgot about noticing which direction they were headed or how many turns they had taken. Her heart hammered against the horseman’s back nearly as loudly as the hooves drumming beneath them. She would never find her way back to the beech tree.

  She didn’t dare change position, but kept tight hold of the horseman, her face pressed against him. Her cheeks were damp with his sweat, and a little sore from something scratchy that fell down the center of his back. Overhead, the canopy thickened as they rode deeper into the forest. The path narrowed, and brambles tore at Holly’s jeans as they flew past. The birdsong she’d heard earlier quieted; creatures on their path scurried under rotted logs and into their burrows, silenced. Holly held tighter than ever.

  At last, before they’d been traveling quite an hour, more light began to filter through the trees and Holly could see a clearing ahead. The horseman began to slow down, and his right hand shot down to her ankle and held it fast. The other clamped down on her left wrist, which still encircled his waist. The grip was like granite; she had no chance of jumping off now.

  They came at a trot to a large glade and stopped at its far end. The rider did not dismount; he merely reached behind him with a very long, strong arm and grabbed Holly around the waist. He swung her onto the ground, still clenching one wrist so tightly that she couldn’t break free. She landed on her feet, which nearly collapsed beneath her, she was so sore; and when she looked up at her captor, all thought of escape deserted her.

  He wasn’t a man on horseback at all.

  He was a centaur.

  Most people have only seen pictures of centaurs in books; Holly was one of those people. She might have expected to see a handsome man’s torso growing out of a horse’s body. And while this was essentially true, the man didn’t look as she would have imagined. He was wild, with large, brown, horselike eyes nearly on the sides of his head. His chest was massive and powerful, and covered with chestnut-colored hair and a broad beard. His long, free hair extended down his back. Holly touched her cheek; his mane had been scratching her face. Her legs weakened, as much from the sight of him as from their gallop through the wood. She knew she should try to run, but she couldn’t stop staring at him. When he spoke at last, a deep whinny ran under his words.

  “Almaric!” The centaur spoke not to her, but to the edge of the clearing.

  Holly saw they were standing at what looked to be an enormously thick, twisted elm tree. But then she saw it was two trees, one on each side of a low arched wooden door. Holly couldn’t decide if it was a tree grown around a house or a house inside a tree.

  The centaur raised a front hoof and kicked gently on the door by way of a knock, and bellowed again, “Almaric!”

  After a moment, during which the centaur pawed the ground impatiently, the funny little door opened and a man stepped into the glade.

  He was the smallest man Holly had ever seen, hardly taller than she, with bones as thin as a boy’s. But he looked ancient, with shoulder-length white hair that blended into his beard
, and so many wrinkles on his face that his deep-set blue eyes looked like two more. He wore a simple buff-colored robe edged in leaves and vines embroidered in green thread. One gnarled hand leaned on a crooked, highly polished staff. He tottered forward and glanced in confusion from the centaur to Holly and back again.

  “And who is this?” he asked.

  “I leave that to you, Lord Magician,” the centaur replied. Their voices lilted in a kind of Gaelic accent, but Holly could understand them.

  The centaur turned to Holly suddenly, as if just remembering something. He released her wrist and extended one foreleg, bending the other. He bowed his head and torso low, nearly touching the ground, and from a pouch slung around his waist he pulled a long stick. It looked quite like a wand. Do centaurs cast spells? she wondered. She backed away, but the centaur laid the wand flat on his palm, presenting it.

  Holly gave a small cry. It was her wand, the key that she’d thought lost in the forest. She snatched it up, thinking too late that she was being a bit rude.

  “Your Ladyship,” the centaur said gravely, still speaking to the ground. Holly realized she was pointing the wand at him.

  “Ranulf! She is an Adept?” the old man asked, breathless. Holly turned toward him, the wand still outstretched. He flinched, then bowed. “My lady.”

  She lowered her arm. “I’m not a lady—just Holly.” What else had he called her? Her head still throbbed from the ride. Maybe she’d been knocked out and was having a very odd dream. She turned to the centaur. “You don’t have to—um—bow.”

  The centaur raised his head. “You honor me, Lady. I am Ranulf of the Mounted, at your humble service.” He bowed again, not quite so deeply.

  At once the old man sprang to life. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously, smiling wide. The wrinkles in his face condensed into dimples, and his voice strengthened, making him sound like a young man. “Almaric of the Elm, if it please Your Ladyship. Imagine, Ranulf! An Adept amongst us again!”

  “An Adept who narrowly escaped capture by His Highness not this hour gone,” said the centaur. “She cannot bide in the open, Almaric.”

  “Gracious me!” The old man’s eyes darted frantically around the glade as he threw open the door to his odd little house. “Quite right! Inside, my lady, if you please!” He waved his hand in front of Holly. “Quickly, now. ’Tis humble, but safe within.”

  Holly hung back. Her mother’s warnings about entering strange houses echoed in her head. “But—”

  “No time for discussion, my lady!” Almaric grabbed her arm and bustled her into the house ahead of him while the centaur disappeared around the back.

  It was like walking inside the tree itself. The snug room was round, like the hollow of a great trunk, with smooth branches supporting a low roof hung with ivy. Two broad chairs made of pliable branches grew out of the floor and huddled around a low table set with a tea tray. Opposite the table an iron pot hung in a generous hearth.

  Almaric breathed a sigh and smiled again. “My apologies, Your Ladyship, but even this deep in the wood, your safety may not be guaranteed. Yes, Ranulf, come in, just there.” He motioned to the centaur, who had appeared at a deep-set window opening beside the hearth. Ranulf ducked his head and shoulders inside.

  “Heavens, Lady Holly,” said Almaric, blushing, “do not stand on ceremony here! Take your ease.” He patted a chair next to her and began pouring the tea, chuckling. “A narrow escape from His Highness, was it? And Your Ladyship summoned Ranulf? Fine work!”

  She glanced from Almaric to the centaur. Her heart made a fluttery jump in her chest. Who were these people? Were they even people at all? Holly had hardly moved from the doorway, and she glanced back with a brief idea of bolting back into the wood, but her legs wobbled beneath her, and Almaric’s chair, piled with flowered cushions, did look soft. Had she been saved? Or captured?

  Almost against her will, her body sank into the soft chintz and her sore muscles eased. “I . . . Well . . . It was pretty great that you came by just then,” she said to the centaur.

  “At your summons, Lady,” said Ranulf, inclining his head.

  “But I didn’t do anything. I just . . . ” What exactly had happened? “I pulled out the key—wand—”

  “I came on my fleetest hoof, my lady.”

  “Uh . . . right.” Holly put a hand to her head, trying to still the pounding in her temples.

  “Ranulf!” the old man exclaimed. “Our guest is exhausted. Did you fling her over your back like a bag of barley?”

  “Your Ladyship’s pardon, I beg you,” said the centaur. “Your safety was of the essence.”

  “It’s okay, really. I mean, thank you,” said Holly weakly. She grasped the cup of tea that Almaric poured for her. Its warmth calmed her. What kind of place had she come to? She had thought the key would take them back in time, like what she’d seen at Darton Castle, but this place was somewhere else altogether. She glanced at the window, where Ranulf’s horsey face poked through. The steeping tea had a sweet, wild scent. Holly’s mother would not approve of her drinking it, but it seemed the only ordinary thing in a world of very extraordinary things. Before she knew it, Holly had nearly drained the cup, and she saw with relief that Almaric had poured cups for himself and Ranulf from the same bulbous teapot. So at least it wasn’t poisoned.

  “It is to your liking, my lady?” Almaric asked.

  “Thanks, it’s great,” Holly said.

  The old man smiled and sat down opposite her. “ ’Tisn’t much, Lady Adept. But now, to hear your tale. Ranulf and I would know from whence you came.”

  “Oh!” Holly cried—because now she remembered, having just gotten comfortable—“My brother! Everett!”

  At their blank looks, she continued, “That prince rode off with them. I have to find them! It sounded like he was—I don’t know—maybe going to kill them.” Her voice caught.

  “The boy is your kinsman? Is he the Elder?” Ranulf asked from the window.

  “No, I’m the oldest,” said Holly, wondering what difference it made. “The other boy is a friend of ours.”

  She heard a sharp scraping sound and saw with alarm that the centaur had drawn a sword. “We shall avenge them, my lady.”

  “Now, Ranulf,” Almaric said, looking as nervous as Holly felt, “there’s no need to ride off to battle. The prince has been on the hunt for poachers these seven days. He has no reason to think these lads are any more than that.” He patted Holly’s knee. “Prince Avery does not kill poachers. At worst, he might cut off a hand.”

  “What!” Holly sprang up from her seat.

  “Patience, my lady. There is time enough to keep our heads. His Highness will want to feast and toast his success. He shan’t deal with his prisoners until daybreak, unless he has too much wine and waits till midday.”

  “But are you sure?” she prodded.

  “Better to work with a plan in mind than to charge into a volley of arrows, eh?” He glanced at the centaur, who sheathed the sword reluctantly.

  “Okay,” Holly said, “so we make a plan. You guys are great and all”—she tried to swallow her doubt, looking at Almaric’s thin frame—“but I think we need more help. I mean, the longer the boys stay there, wherever it is—”

  “The tyrant’s castle,” said Ranulf. “It cannot be breached on a whim. We shall need aid and, aye”—he glanced at Almaric—“swords.”

  “I see no need for swords,” the magician insisted. He took Holly’s hand gently, pulling her back to her chair. “My lady, you have the magic of an Adept! We have not seen one of your kind for nigh on forty years, nor has the king.”

  “If we make a show of force, the king may release the prisoners in fear of Her Ladyship’s power,” said Ranulf.

  “What are you talking about?” Holly asked, sitting down again. The conversation was getting more confusing by the minute. “I don’t have any power. And why are you calling me that—adept?”

  The centaur and the old man exchanged a
surprised look. “Your wand, my lady,” Ranulf said. “Only a true Adept can wield it.”

  Holly pulled the wand out of her pocket. Her two companions winced. “But I’m no one special. It was just a present. It could belong to anybody—like you, Ranulf. You picked it up.”

  The centaur blushed a deep scarlet. “Oh no, my lady. I claim no such power. ’Twas you who summoned me.”

  “But I didn’t,” said Holly.

  “You were in peril. Did you not desire aid?”

  “Well . . . I guess I did.”

  Almaric beamed at her.

  “So it was this?” She twirled the wand, and the centaur’s eyes followed it, one hand on the hilt of his sword. They’re afraid of me, she realized. They think I’m going to cast some kind of spell.

  “Please, my lady,” urged Ranulf. “How can you not know your own people? Tell us whence you came.”

  “Over the sea, was it? From the Island of Exile?” asked Almaric. “Perhaps a shipwreck,” he added, turning to the centaur. “If she hit her head, she may not recall—”

  “It wasn’t a shipwreck,” cried Holly. “You don’t understand, I don’t even come from here.” She stopped herself just in time, before the words tumbled out. How could she trust them? They were strangers—certainly stranger than anyone she’d ever met. She held the wand upright, gazing at the carved vines and flowers that encircled it. Almaric and Ranulf were frightened of it, and they had just given it to her. That would have to be reason enough to trust them, right? And anyway, how would she find the boys without them?

  The old magician and the centaur stayed very still, staring at her.

  “Look,” Holly said slowly, turning the wand to let the crystal catch the light. “I know this sounds pretty weird, but Ben and Everett and I came from a different place altogether. Like another world, maybe. It looks a lot like this one, but we don’t have a king or prince or thingies—Adepts—there. Someone there gave me the wand—I mean, it was a key—and then I used it to take us here through the forest. But I didn’t even know where we were going, or where we are now.”